What exotic plague this, my companion, that swirls upon us from the whitened sky?
This snobliteration, this mighty force of moisture and of temperature, bound together,
Augured over-much from the manifold channels of augury,
It descends upon the pathways and byways of our perambulation,
And also gathers to the height of my withers, and yea drifts to a height even higher.
How shall we direct our muzzles and the pacing of our paws upon our way?
On this path we tread of each forenoon and each afternoon, round about the block we call territory,
We must now tread in a narrow passage ever more narrowly,
Repulsed on every side by these banks, cold and unfragrant, of snoblivion.
Alas, this accretion has parted us from our smellings and our markings.
Behold, even the tiniest of corners, the narrowest margin of earth,
Of grass and soil, is veiled from our senses.
Neither can we express our missives in perfumed tones upon the rich turf,
Nea, nor gather in the redolent episstles of our pack neighbors.
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